The City of Splendors_ A Waterdeep Novel - Ed Greenwood [134]
"Lark stayed behind to talk to Beldar," Faendra said confidently. "I looked back as our carriage pulled away, and neither had come down the stairs."
The nobles exchanged worried glances.
Naoni peered from one to another. "What? What is it?"
"Beldar hasn't… been himself of late," Korvaun told her. "I'd put it down to grief about Malark. Much as I hate to admit it, we may have another worry in common."
* * * * *
Beldar glanced back at Lark. "Take care. The steps are damp and slippery."
She put her hand on the mossy wall, her face ghostly green in the faint lichen-glow. Beldar took some satisfaction in her tense expression. Clearly, the wench had no fondness for tunnels and close places, or perhaps she was reconsidering the wisdom of blackmail, though she should hardly have expected a sordid transaction to be free of discomfort.
The look on her face when they stopped before the Dathran's skullgate was all Beldar could have desired. It turned to open fear when the front four "teeth" swung inward to reveal the way on.
"Well met again, Lord Roaringhorn," the dry and familiar voice came from the darkness beyond. "I see you are something more than you were… and something less. Come in, the maid first."
Beldar waved Lark forward. She clenched her teeth, climbed through the opening-and promptly squeaked in surprise at the touch of the warding magics.
Beldar joined her. The old witch was standing with her black Rashemaar mask in her hand and her keen blue eyes bent on Lark. "Welcome, child. I sense in you a great longing to know. Tell Dathran what you seek."
Lark handed over the charm. The Dathran passed it from one wizened hand to the other.
"Stolen," she announced, her voice devoid of judgment. "More than that, I cannot tell."
Lark swallowed. "Is there… magic about it?"
Dathran closed her eyes, and her face took on the expression of one who listens to distant voices. "None," she said slowly.
"So you can tell me nothing about it."
"Only that you fear the use that might be made of it and need not, yet. Perhaps I can tell something of its history, if that would ease your mind."
When Lark nodded, the woman began to chant. A soft, humming haze gathered around the charm but faded at the end of the incantation.
Dathran handed it back. "I learned one word, nothing more: slipshield. Holds that any meaning for you?"
Lark shook her head and slipped the charm into the bag at her belt. "No, but I thank you for trying."
A high-pitched chuckle came from the gargoyle-like figure perched on the mantel. Lark caught her breath as the small gray form she'd thought a mere carving flapped batlike wings and showed its fangs in a leer.
"You needn't thank her," the imp mocked. "You have to pay her."
Beldar handed over a palmful of coins and ushered Lark out of the Dathran's lair. When they emerged from the skullgate, he seized her arm and spun her around to face him.
"What's this about? From whom did you steal this, and why did you think it might be magic?"
Lark tugged free and stepped back, lifting her chin defiantly. "You keep your secrets, Lord Roaringhorn, and I'll keep mine."
Beldar's first inclination was to let the matter go; after all, what cared he about a silver trinket? Yet a dark, hissing murmur in the back of his mind wanted the charm.
Without another thought he seized the bag at her belt and tugged sharply. Its strings broke, Lark lunged for it-and he backhanded her across the face.
She reeled, face showing none of the astonishment Beldar himself felt. Before he could offer a word of apology, she hauled up her skirts in obvious preparation for a groin-high kick.
He sidestepped into a crouch to shield the Roaringhorn family jewels-and astonishingly, the lass punched his face, hard.
Blast! He dropped the bag to clutch his bleeding nose. Lark snatched up her property and raced away up the stairs, as nimble as a sewer rat.
Two high-pitched, evil chuckles arose behind the skull-wall, but for once Beldar's thoughts were not of his own humiliation.